


No Longer Alone

by dbhprincess



Series: No Longer Alone [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Caretaking, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27465250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbhprincess/pseuds/dbhprincess
Summary: Seasoned Commander Hank had to leave botanist/engineer Connor on Mars amidst a dust storm that threatened his crew during their month-long stay on the red planet. After Hank ordered a mission abort, Connor was apparently killed, and the five survivors returned to their spacecraft to begin the long journey home. But Connor wasn’t dead, and Hank and the crew didn’t hesitate to go back for him as soon as they could. After spending 18 months alone on Mars, Connor was finally reunited with his crewmates…and his commander.A HankCon AU inspired by the 2015 filmThe Martian.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: No Longer Alone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006686
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	No Longer Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a [concept thread](https://twitter.com/i/events/1294694026780631042) on Twitter and includes a modified version of that thread as a prologue, then continues with the main story thread that was written after.

**Before**

Commander Hank Anderson and crewmember Connor Stern had danced around their feelings ever since the mission crew was first formed back on Earth. When Connor was marooned, they each clung to the hope of an unspoken future together, secretly nestled between lines of encouragement and easy banter in the correspondence they maintained while waiting for their spacecraft to return for Connor on Mars.

It was Hank who seized Connor in his arms from the void of space. It was Hank who drew him into the shelter of the airlock and removed his helmet, pressing one gentle, warm palm to Connor’s cherished face, where his disbelieving tears dug tracks through unwashed skin. Connor was surrounded on all sides by his ecstatic crewmates, their voices and laughter, their shoulder pats and shining smiles. But it was Hank who gripped the entirety of his attention, a galaxy of the moments they’d had and the moments they would have held in Hank’s eyes.

**After**

“Alright, everybody, time to get our boy to the medical bay. He’s come too far to collapse anywhere but in a comfortable bed.” Hank laughed, finally pulling his eyes from Connor and looking into the faces of his jubilant crew. The hole that had been dug into his chest as surely as that antenna had dug into Connor was almost filled again. He needed to be certain Connor was going to be okay before he could tamp down the earth and lay his shovel to rest.

Connor huffed a strained laugh as Hank slung an arm under his shoulders to help him traverse his way from the airlock to the medical bay, then groaned at the jolt, pressing a hand to the ribs that had probably cracked under the weight of a 12 g acceleration. Upon entering the medical bay, Hank bent and silently began the task of removing Connor from his EVA suit, so carefully, Chloe coming through the doorway behind to assist. The mood was quiet, serene, a placid glacier lake warmed by benevolent sunlight, and Hank felt both the heat of Connor’s living skin and the chill of residual fear still flowing deep in his veins.

As Chloe cut away Connor’s undershirt, Hank held his breath as his eyes caught on a mole a finger’s width below Connor’s right collarbone. Mesmerized, Hank's eyes roamed downward of their own volition to catalog those they could find among the damage that littered Connor’s torso. When his gaze reached a pink nipple, puckered in the coolness of the room, Hank snapped abruptly back into the moment. With the studied harmony of a classical duet, Hank and Chloe finished undressing Connor. He did not fight their ministrations.

Hank lay the now redundant pieces of the suit that had kept Connor alive carefully in a corner, almost reverentially. When he stood and turned, Connor was sitting quietly on the exam chair, upright but bent, listing to one side. He was wearing nothing but a sheet on his lap; Hank had the thought that his feet must be cold.

And it hurt, it hurt to see him like this: his once lithe but strong body weak and wasted away, once bright, clear skin dulled beneath sores and scars and filth. Low on the left side of his abdomen, a mere few inches beneath his heart, Hank saw the scar mapping where Connor had been impaled. No bigger than a quarter, that scar marked the eighteen-month disruption of Connor’s life. Of their lives.

Slowly, Hank raised his hand, seeking to connect, to smooth down the rough imperfection, as if he could wipe away the memory of all it had wrought. Again, he caught himself staring, focusing on what did not matter just now, and he quickly pulled back. Having followed the aborted trajectory of Hank's hand, Connor looked up when he stilled and gave him a tired, one-cheeked smile that softly crinkled the corners of his warm, brown eyes.

After X-rays and a thorough examination, Chloe declared Connor malnourished, with calcium deficient bones, a couple cracked ribs, and “smelling like a waste receptacle.” Arms folded across his barrel chest, Hank snorted as Chloe gave Connor a lilting smile and drew a solution into a hypodermic needle. Connor cut his eyes to Hank before ducking his head and smirking sheepishly. Fastidious by nature, he’d be embarrassed and perhaps a bit mortified that they – that Hank – had to see him like this, but he was too relieved that Hank could see him at all.

At the pressure of Chloe swabbing his arm with alcohol he lifted his head, eyebrows raised in question. Chloe answered that she was giving him a vitamin-rich serum to begin the process of replenishing his depleted body. He’d have to endure them daily awhile longer, but he didn’t care. Anything that kept him alive and healthy and here, cradled in his surrogate home, was a good thing.

After the vitamin shot came another for pain. His ribs hurt more than he would say, and it was time for the unpleasant but necessary task of disinfecting and dressing the myriad scratches and sores Connor had been staunchly ignoring until now. They stung and itched and burned a bit in the open air, and he knew it was foolish to feel shame when he looked down at his ruined, battered body, but he did all the same. Another quick glance at Hank’s expression revealed no distaste, no disgust lurking there, and when his commander stepped readily to his side to assist Chloe with another set of hands, Connor supposed he’d done the man a great disservice. He quickly blamed his time on Mars, with its constant watching and waiting for disappointment or defeat, and forgave himself his momentary lapse of faith. If Hank couldn’t quite keep entirely passive, if a wince twitched through the powerful lines of his handsome face each time Connor flinched under his care, Connor did not hold it against him. Hank bent his tall frame gently to his task, and Connor was grateful for it.

It was overwhelming, almost, to be close to another living body again, close enough to smell someone other than himself. Chloe’s fingers tripped across his skin, from wound to wound, quick, light, and efficient. But Hank’s fingers belonged to Hank’s hands, and there was nothing light about them. They didn’t dab and dance away; they pressed and held, molding divots, leaving prints in the film on his unwashed skin. As Hank’s hands moved calmly to each new spot on Connor’s body, always one finger or more stayed connected, grounding him and never letting him go – like they’d done in the void of space. Connor no longer felt the coolness of the room.

When the cleaning was complete, Hank stepped quietly back, and the air chilled around Connor once more. Chloe smiled and gently wrapped a medical robe over his shoulders and handed him slippers before asking if he was hungry. Connor shook his head, for he truly couldn’t eat. He’d had his final Mars meal, the one he’d saved special and chewed with a tense jaw and dry mouth, not too long ago, and his stomach hadn’t fully unknotted from the excitement, the anxiety, the relief of the past few hours.

After receiving doses of painkillers and sleeping pills if needed and strict instructions to shower and rest both his mind and ribs, Connor left Chloe in her domain with the exchange of an earnest “Thank you” and an equally sincere “See you soon.” He then followed Hank to the single shower room on board, secretly reluctant to lose sight of him for more than a moment. He’d had enough such moments on Mars. The medical robe brushed against his legs as he walked, tickling the hairs matted with sweat and grime. He really needed a shower.

They turned to their left, and Hank swung open the muted white door, sweeping an arm inward and gesturing with his head. The shower room was as Connor remembered it: bright, white, with a bench for disrobing, storage shelves for supplies, and a shower stall against the right-side wall. Across from that to his left hung a mirror, but Connor did not turn toward it. Instead, he traced his eyes slowly around the familiar, yet strange surroundings in front of him, before hesitantly returning them to Hank in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled the frame, and when the sun's light through the window caught his eyes, their vivid blue shone brighter than a summer sky back home. They dazzled Connor after the endless orange and red of Mars.

“Welcome back, Connor.” Hank’s voice rumbled like an echo into the sparse room. “You take as long as you need, don’t worry about water usage. Everyone here volunteered today’s shower ration before we even got you on board.” Hank tipped his head again, this time toward a small panel on the wall. “Just use the intercom if you need anything.”

Connor understood what he was supposed to do now. His bruised, itching body needed it, welcomed it, but his shoulders slumped under the weight of the task. Even a thing as simple as a shower was too great a burden for his weary bones. He’d been strong for so long; now, he wanted to be weak.

“I don't want– Please.” Connor had reached his limit and it was all he could manage.

Hank looked down at his feet and back up again with a squint before crossing the threshold with a quick exhalation. “You don't want to be left alone.” It was a statement, not a question, and his voice rumbled deeper between Connor's aching ribs.

Eyes beginning to burn, air flooded into Connor's lungs on a sharp inhale and caught there, breath locked in his chest, as he mutely shook his head.

Hank hesitated, and Connor knew what he was thinking. The one step forward he would have to take to reach Connor’s side was instead a leap of faith onto an uncharted course. Hank’s eyes searched his face, solemn and drawn a little tight. But then the tightness softened and he quirked a small smile before spanning the chasm between them in a single stride.

When Hank stepped forward, he knew he could no longer step back. This was the final stage of freeing himself from the gravity of his obligation as commander so he could fall into Connor’s orbit. Before Mars, they’d danced around each other, allowing the unwritten rules regarding fraternization – particularly between commander and crew – to dictate their steps. Hank had been terrified of jeopardizing both the mission entrusted to him and this unexpected, inevitable friendship with the man standing frozen before him. But today, it was after Mars; their mission was almost over. He had a crew to see safely home, but Connor was his mission now.

The space between them had reduced to inches, and Hank felt the rush of Connor’s breath as he released it from its hold. With that release came a relaxation of his spine, an acquiescence to the shift in Hank’s priorities perhaps, or maybe just exhaustion taking hold. The overhead light shining down on Connor’s long lashes cast shadows beneath his eyes. Leaning to his left, Hank took the meds from Connor’s hand and placed them on the bench before wrapping a confident hand around the back of his neck and tugging him into his arms.

It was their first hug, the first press of their chests after months of Hank contenting himself with unsatisfactory pressings of his palm to Connor’s palm, to his arm, his shoulder, his upper back, and once to his waist. Now he fit his entire arm around Connor’s shoulders and Connor’s face to his neck. In return, Connor wrapped his arms around Hank’s waist and clung. He clung as tightly as his ribs would allow, like a barnacle mass that could drag down a ship. But Hank was a vessel of a different kind, and he didn’t want to scrape himself clean.

He did, however, want Connor clean, relieved of the filth on his body and the strain on his mind. So after granting them an eternal minute to indulge, he gently pulled away. Connor was looking up at him, arms hanging idly at his sides. There were only a few inches of height difference between them, but for the first time since he’d known him, Connor looked fragile and small.

“You want me to stay.” Again, he spoke a statement, not a question, but he still needed to hear Connor’s consent.

“Yes. Please. Hank, I–” Connor’s eyes flicked to the stall and back, “I need help.”

Hank nodded, then nodded again before slowly lifting hesitant hands to the robe belt around Connor’s waist. When Connor remained still, Hank loosened the knot and let the robe fall open, keeping his eyes firmly of Connor’s face. From this close, Hank could see the tinge of a flush shade Connor’s cheeks, dusting along those magnificent cheekbones and chasing the shadows from below his eyes. There was also a hint of a challenge in those eyes, a contrast to the sudden droop that softly parted Connor’s mouth.

Before he could get lost in the curve of that mouth, be hooked by those daring eyes, Hank stepped to his right and around, now facing the back of Connor’s head. What he saw there was both a delight and a sorrow, though neither might remain so long. In place of the usually tamed strands atop Connor’s head and closely clipped hairs along his neck were dark brown curls, not overgrown, and just the right length for Hank to sink his fingers into. He didn't, of course, but instead sighed inaudibly at the loss of his favorite mole that never failed to attract his notice, the one that once skirted the edge on Connor’s hairline, but was now hidden beneath the curls.

All this observation took only a moment, but it was a moment more before Hank carefully slipped the robe from Connor’s shoulders, fingertips skimming along his collarbone. As he turned to drop it on the bench, Connor kicked of his slippers and strode toward the stall, seemingly emboldened in his nakedness. Hank figured they’d come too far, and Connor had endured too much, for him to falter now.

Sucking in a breath, Hank pulled his shirt over his head and toed off his shoes while Connor started the shower water. His fingers paused at the top of his pants until he shook his head sharply and pushed them down, silently berating himself for the jitters that had kick-started his heart. His socks joined his pants on the bench just as Connor turned to face him. Hank reached for the waistband of his underwear, for equality’s sake, but Connor took a step toward him and stayed his hand, gripping his fingers over Hank’s palm before drawing him forward into the stall.

Stepping under the forceful shower spray, Connor shut his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed. He feared that when he opened them again, he’d be back in the Hab, in its broom closet sized stall with a half-hearted drizzle. This would all be the delusion of an impossibly lonely man who had conjured a mirage as he slowly went mad on the desert of Mars. But then Hank squeezed his hand and he blinked, turning his face from the water to take a breath.

“You okay there?” Hank asked, a concerned pinch between his brows. “Is the water hurting you?”

Connor turned fully to face Hank. He should feel uncomfortable, exposed, but he only felt peace. “A little, but the liquid bandages help. I’d be a ball of agony on the tile floor right now without them, I think.” He laughed, and though his ribs protested, it felt good.

Hank’s forehead relaxed before he dropped Connor’s hand. “It’s good to hear your laugh again, Con.”

Connor nearly shivered at the nickname, spoken only once before. He shifted his weight onto his left foot and swallowed. “It’s good to hear _voices_ again,” he countered, then paused. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Hank replied, and there was a wealth of understanding buried in his tone, “I know.”

All of a sudden Connor didn’t want to talk anymore, though he’d been bereft of conversation for so long. There was something else that Connor wanted more, that he’d yearned for more, even before Mars. He reached for the washcloth he’d hung over the shower door, held it up between them, and asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Will you help me?”

“Yeah,” Hank said again, but this time it wasn’t sympathy buried in his voice. “Turn around.”

And this time, Connor did shiver, goosebumps sprouting along his arms as readily as his potato plants had sprouted on Mars. But this was not Mars, Connor reminded himself, and he turned to face the water. The crack of the body wash lid popping open was deafening in the suddenly charged silence, and Connor’s nose caught the sweet scent of pineapple. Body tense with anticipation, he waited for Hank’s touch.

The first pass of the washcloth along the top of his shoulders was tentative and light, but Connor almost whimpered aloud. A year and a half alone had parched his skin, and he’d gladly soak in any friendly touch. But this touch was Hank’s, and Connor had waited far longer for more than just a pat on the shoulder or nudge to the arm. He couldn’t feel Hank’s skin through the cloth, but his heart didn’t seem to care. After stopping for a single beat, it launched itself into double-time.

Hank stilled suddenly, and Connor’s stomach dropped at the thought that he’d been too obvious, that he’d made Hank uncomfortable, or worse, made him realize that he shouldn’t be here, that they shouldn’t be here. But Hank surprised him by leaning forward and placing a broad hand against his side, between his rib cage and left arm. The touch was gentle, but determined.

Hank’s breath stirred the dampened curls at his neck when he said, “You let me know if something hurts too much, got it? I’ll be as careful as I can, but I know this won’t be the most fun you’ve had.”

Certainly not the most fun he’s had while naked, no.

Connor wanted so much to make the joke, but he didn’t want to chance any awkwardness between them. He also couldn’t tell Hank that it was his heart that hurt, not from the pain of what he’d experienced, but with the stunning ache of longings fulfilled. So instead, he mumbled a quiet, “Got it,” and nodded his head. The hand on his side squeezed ever so slightly, compressing just the outer layers of his skin, shaping divots as it had done in the medical bay, fingerprints pressing into soap suds.

Hank continued his work, gently, carefully wiping down Connor’s back, attentive to any shift in his stance or flinch of his muscles. With one cursory swipe over Connor’s backside, Hank dropped to one knee to reach his legs, then stood once more. Connor heard the crack of the body wash lid again and jumped a little when Hank smacked him lightly on the waist.

“Turn around, stinky. Time to decontaminate the front side.”

Connor rolled his eyes with a snort, but the swirling wave of anxious anticipation that had been building in his gut threatened to crest as he turned and faced the man who had long since carried his heart. There was laughter in Hank’s eyes, but it wasn’t mocking; it was joyous, communal and shared.

But then his eyes cast downward, and the laughter slipped away. Passing the washcloth to his left hand, Hank extended his right toward Connor’s middle and touched his scar, the rough patch that would forever be with him, along with the memories. And the solemn way Hank’s forefinger caressed the mark shattered some wall in Connor’s mind that he had been fearfully hiding behind.

“It’s okay, Hank,” Connor murmured, wrapping his fingers around Hank’s wrist. “I’m here now. Where I belong.”

Hank’s eyes snapped to Connor’s, and their electric blue lit him up inside. “This scar is a badge, Connor. A badge of your brilliance and your courage and the tremendous will that’s alive in that stubborn head of yours. It stayed alive, and so did you. Never forget that.”

That wave deep inside Connor lapped at the base of his throat, and he had to swallow the sudden lump there. Connor brushed his hand once up Hank’s forearm before letting it go, and Hank smiled and returned his eyes to Connor’s chest to resume the washing. Down his torso slid the cloth, down over that terrible, beautiful scar. Again, Hank dropped to a knee to rub his legs, and Connor tipped his head back into the spray and breathed deep.

When Hank stood up for the second time, he handed the cloth to Connor and averted his face, hands on his hips. As he cleaned what Hank had skipped, Connor let his eyes wander over Hank’s beard, still neatly trimmed, over his hair, grayer now than before Mars. His eyes traveled down to Hank’s chest and caught on too many things at once: the healthy patch of chest hair, the large, faded tattoo, and the scars. Connor had seen Hank without his shirt before, but he hadn’t let himself really look. He wondered if Hank would tell him about all the marks on his skin someday. If Connor had his way, he’d have a lifetime to hear about them.

Hank staunchly held his gaze on the frosted shower door, cataloguing the beads of condensation gathering there. They reminded him of the delicate drops of color scattered over Connor’s skin: the freckles and moles that had slowly revealed themselves under Hank’s cleansing hand. Now that he wasn’t touching Connor, his heartrate was finally stabilizing and the tremors he’d been desperately trying to conceal had ceased. But he was no less affected by this singular moment than he suspected Connor was, for he couldn’t help but notice Connor’s wandering eye; every nerve in Hank was attuned to every movement in Connor. A warmth was building in his chest, and he furiously hoped he wasn’t blushing.

After Connor finished washing himself and rinsed out the washcloth, Hank turned back to face him again. It was harder now to keep his eyes where they belonged, to keep his field of vision from expanding outward from the single, safe point of Connor’s face to encompass him in his entirety. Hank wanted to – oh did he want to – but this was certainly not the time. Without a particular task to focus on, Hank couldn’t trust himself, so he reached for the shampoo bottle and lifted an eyebrow in question.

“Oh,” said Connor, eyelids suddenly drooping half-closed. “Yes, please.” And the husky exhale in his voice sent a charged jolt down Hank’s spine.

So Hank popped the cap, and Connor turned around once again. Hank would be amused by the seemingly endless twirling if he weren’t so distracted by the thought that now he could sink his fingers into those curls, now he would touch Connor without the barrier of a cloth. Hank’s fingers were alight with a new set of tremors that he refused to acknowledge.

At the caress of Hank’s hands on his head, Connor sagged, just a little, and leaned into the touch. They stood there together, absolutely still apart from the roll of Connor’s scalp under Hank’s massaging fingers. Minutes passed before Hank moved on, shifting to the hairline along Connor’s forehead, careful not to get shampoo in his eyes, then back again and down, to the nape of his neck. He increased the pressure a bit there, and Connor groaned, dropping his chin down in eager offering.

“That feels really good, Hank,” Connor said, voice hardly more than a whisper. A shudder ran through his shoulders, and Hank tightened his grip, humming in agreement. “I dreamed of you, of this, almost every night. On Mars.”

Stunned at the admission, Hank’s fingers faltered, and it took him longer than he would have liked to realize that though Connor’s voice remained quiet, it was suddenly strained. He leaned forward to peer at his Connor’s face. Any tears he might have shed were already washed away down the drain, but Hank didn’t need to hear the tiny sob that rose from Connor’s throat, slipping past the strangling hold of that stubborn will, to know that Connor’s iron control had finally cracked.

With sad recognition of the inevitable, Hank gripped the tops of Connor’s arms and slowly turned him around. Searching glassy eyes, he asked, “What do you need, Connor?”

“Just you,” came the reply, and Connor’s voice cracked down the middle, as did Hank’s heart for the man who owned it. He bent his elbows, drawing Connor to his chest, sliding his hands around Connor’s back to anchor him there. Like before, Connor’s arms wrapped around him, but this time his hands traveled up toward Hank’s shoulders, where Connor buried his face and cried.

It was ugly and messy and everything Hank didn’t want for Connor, but also everything he needed. Connor gripped him hard, hard enough that Hank began to worry for his cracked ribs, but he kept silent because in this, Connor’s mind was more important than the body that housed it. He too knew something of the gravity of loss and loneliness and the necessity of release to escape their depths. Hank daringly hoped that this moment, with him, was the beginning of Connor’s healing and a step onto his – their – new path forward. Pressing his lips to the shell of Connor’s ear, Hank held him close and silently blessed the engineer who designed the stall big enough for two.

When he finally felt under control, Connor pulled back. He smiled to himself when he felt the gentle brush of Hank’s lips on his temple.

“You okay, now?” Hank asked. Connor nodded, and Hank continued, “I’m gonna step outside and dry off. You can come out when you’re ready.”

At the click of the shower door, Connor tipped his head back under the spray to rinse the remaining suds from his hair, alone in the stall but not in the room. He listened to the soft scrape of the towel against Hank’s skin and turned his head to peer through the opaque glass at the vague shape twisting and bending. It was just an impression of the man, just the base layers of the full portrait, but Connor knew its value. How had he stayed sane for so long without the living energy of another person disturbing the air around him?

But enough of those melancholy musings. He was here now, safe and cared for. With resolve, Connor turned off the taps and grabbed the towel Hank had slung over the door for him, wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the stall. Hank was dressed again, toweling his damp hair. When he saw Connor’s dripping form, he smirked and reached for yet another towel, draping it over Connor’s head and roughly rubbing his hair. Connor stared at a droplet that ran from Hank’s beard, down his throat, to the dip between his clavicles. He fisted his hands at his sides; Connor wanted to taste it.

With Hank’s help, Connor was soon dried and wrapped again in his robe, slippers cushioning his feet. Hank grabbed his meds, and the two of them walked the corridor to Connor’s quarters. For the second time, Hank opened the door and ushered him inside before stopping in the doorway.

Connor’s eyes took in his room at a glance, but quickly swiveled back to Hank. “You want to come in for a nightcap?” he joked, and the tense line of Hank’s shoulders loosened, the closed expression that had settled on his face opened once more.

Connor took a step toward him and smiled, a little saucily. “I’m sorry I’m not in a proper state to receive visitors, but I just got back from almost dying, and I haven’t had time to dress.”

Hank took his own step forward and replied, voice pitched low, “Baby, I’d take you in a potato sack.”

Three thoughts fired off at once on a collision course in Connor’s mind. The first, that though Hank must be joking, as evidenced by the wolfish grin on his face, Connor badly wanted Hank to call him baby again, and mean it. The second, that he wanted Hank to take him, in every form and in every way. And the third, that he was heartily sick of potatoes. He could only speak one of those thoughts aloud.

“No, not a potato sack. Please.”

Hank’s grin distorted into a look of dismay, so Connor laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Don’t look like that, Hank. They kept me alive and I’m grateful for that.” He smirked and shrugged a casual shoulder. “But sadly, my french fry fetish days may be over.”

Hank snorted and clasped the hand on his arm. “I glad to see some of that smartass coming back, but it’s okay if you’re not okay… Okay?”

Connor let the warmth from Hank’s hand seep into his own and replied softly, “Okay.”

They stood like that for a moment, just looking at each other, before Connor gave him a pat and stepped around him to head back out to one of the two toilets on board. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied to notice, but nature calls, I think. Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

He stepped into the corridor and started to shut his door behind him, then paused, looking at Hank over his shoulder. “I think I’ll handle this part on my own,” he said with a wink, shutting the door on Hank’s answering laugh.

\-----

When Connor returned to his quarters, he found Hank sitting on his bed, placing his meds on the nightstand. An overwhelming fondness clutched at Connor’s heart for the man who had made his days before Mars much more than they should have been and his hours since Mars more than he could have hoped for.

Wiping his palms down his thighs to his knees, Hank stood and asked, “How’re the ribs? You need any pain meds?”

Connor grabbed a pair of underwear from his closet and shook his head. “I’m alright. I’ve had it worse. Wouldn’t say no to a little shut-eye, though.”

Hank watched Connor sink gingerly onto his mattress, then nodded. “That’s a given, of course – orders from Chloe. She’s counting on me to get you into bed, you know.”

Standing slowly and pulling the underwear up under his robe, Connor cut his eyes to Hank and asked, “Is she?”

Those two simple words, spoken so innocently and being nothing of the sort, slammed into Hank’s chest, spreading a white heat across his ribs and down his sternum to his belly, and lower. He cleared his throat and looked down, away from the temptation in Connor’s eyes.

“Yeah, well, can’t get into bed until you get into some clothes, so…” He gestured with a hesitant hand toward Connor. Somehow, Hank felt awkward and unsure, like he was intruding on Connor’s privacy without his consent. But Connor appeared unaffected; he smirked and stepped forward boldly into Hank’s space. Hank swallowed and told himself to grow up before reaching for the robe belt for the second time today.

Connor was soon dressed in a t-shirt and loose shorts, and with that transition into normalcy, he felt his bravado wane. He knew what he wanted, but he was still a little uncertain, a little afraid he’d been reading everything wrong. On Mars, he’d come to distrust the security of any given moment, since the next could bring unforeseen disaster.

He was roused into action when Hank stepped over to the head of his bed and turned down the blankets. Slipping past Hank’s substantial form, Connor sat down by his pillow and grasped Hank’s hand. “Stay with me for a little while,” he said. He didn’t ask, and he didn’t need to.

Hank bent low, placed a kiss on the top of his head, and murmured, “Whatever you want, baby.”

Hank watched something in Connor’s expression shift: a lifting of tired lines, a glow flickering on his skin and inside his eyes. Then Connor scooted to the other side of the mattress and lay down, watching Hank intently as he lowered himself down. It was a tight fit; Hank’s hip jutted halfway over the edge. He turned on his side to look at Connor’s face, so close to his own.

“We look ridiculous,” he huffed, to which Connor answered, “I don’t care.” And suddenly they were laughing, though Connor quickly clutched his ribs and groaned. Hank laid his hand on Connor’s chest in sympathy.

“I’ve shared a bed with you before, though we weren’t in it at the same time.” Connor spoke bashfully, with an air of confession, so Hank stayed quiet to hear him out.

“I missed you on Mars. I missed everyone, anyone, of course, but I missed you more. So, some nights I slept in your bunk.” Connor dropped a hand over his eyes and swiped it down his face. “God, that sounds so pathetic.”

Connor chanced a peek at Hank, twisting the hem of his shirt in his fingers. Encouraged by his solemn watchfulness, he continued, “I listened to your music, too, all of it. All the time. You have very eclectic taste,” Connor smiled, allowing some of the good memories to wash over him, some of his favorite melodies to flow through his veins again.

“The heavy metal was…an adjustment. But eventually, I’d blast it to drown out the silence.” He looked down at the large hand on his chest and sighed. “Some nights, when it was so hard to fall asleep, I played your jazz. It was soothing.”

Hank lifted his hand from Connor’s chest and ran it over his hair, threading his fingers through those soft curls. He didn’t speak, because he knew words were not needed just now. Connor shifted onto his side and placed his palm against Hank’s cheek. They lay like that for uncounted minutes, just enjoying the closeness, the acceptance, the unspoken…something in the other’s eyes.

Brown eyes beginning to drift closed, Connor’s hand drifted downward and trailed a scorching finger across Hank’s torso, tracing his old tattoo and pausing at each scar. In a near whisper, voice tentative and a little shy, Connor said, “Tell me about them sometime?”

“Any time you want,” Hank answered, and meant much more than he said. His mind drifted for a moment, to the day seven months from now when they reach home again. Connor could have all of Hank’s time then, if he wanted it. Hank thought he did.

Connor sighed and sank deeper into his mattress, relaxed and terribly content. He was happy here, on this bed not big enough for two. But they were making it work, and Connor believed that they could make it work back home, too. With that seductive thought dancing through his mind, Connor carefully rolled over and presented his back to Hank. He had wrapped Connor in his arms twice in the shower room and once, most importantly, when they clutched at each other among the stars. Hank wouldn’t fail him now.

And Hank most certainly did not. He was momentarily distracted by the broad expanse of speckled skin in front of him, then the movement of atrophied muscles and prominent ridges of bone, but he shook off any encroaching sadness and shifted his healthy bulk to press against Connor’s back. He encircled Connor’s waist with his arm, sliding his hand up to lie against Connor’s heart. The rhythm was captivating, and Hank began to hum an old jazz standard he had loved when he was young.

Connor couldn’t help but smile into the pillow beneath his cheek when he recognized the melody. It was one of his favorites, back there on Mars. Hearing it again didn’t bring the distress that it could have, but instead blanketed him in comfort and peace. And Hank held him just right: not so tight as to injure his damaged ribs, but not so loose that his mind could again tumble off into the vast expanse of painful memories. In the home of Hank’s arms, against the wall of his warm chest, his low voice rumbling that soothing tune in his ear, Connor didn’t need any pills to slip into a rejuvenating sleep.

As Hank held him close, Connor knew he was no longer alone, that he would never be alone again.


End file.
